


The Spaces Between

by emmram



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Series 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 14:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3653607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmram/pseuds/emmram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos/d’Artagnan/Constance. Theirs is a story best told in the interstices, in words unsaid, in lingering touches, in bright cheer spread thinly over a deep and hollow grief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spaces Between

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Series 1 spoilers. A bit of a sparse, experimental style? Also, this isn’t so much schmoopy OT3 as it is the three of them being angsty and weird at each other. Sorry…?

Porthos counts twenty-three hits of a knife against wood, two shouts of frustration, and one very loud crash of metal on the floor before he cautiously opens the door to Aramis’ quarters. d’Artagnan’s sitting on the floor in the midst of what looks like a veritable sea of wood shavings, sawing determinedly at a piece of lumber. For a long time, it seems as though he hasn’t noticed Porthos standing at the door; when Porthos clears his throat, he startles so badly he nearly slices his palm open.

“I didn’t—” d’Artagnan says in a hurry, scrambling to his feet, “I wasn’t going to—I’m, uh, I’m—Aramis said that I could—”

Porthos merely gestures for d’Artagnan to follow him outside.

“Interested in carpentry, are we?” Porthos asks, once they’ve reached the practice yard.

d’Artagnan doesn’t meet his eyes. “Thought I could pay M. Bonacieux that way.” His voice lowers. “Father did think that this was one productive way I could wield a blade, but—” he clenches his fingers, “I don’t suppose I was ever any good at it.”

“A bit optimistic of you to think that Bonacieux would buy furniture made by an amateur craftsman.” Porthos unsheathes his sword, gives it a few practice swings, before pointing it levelly at d’Artagnan’s face. “And here I was, thinkin’ you were here because you wanted to become a Musketeer.”

For a second, d’Artagnan’s eyes widen with a kind of desperate hope. It transforms his face for that moment—turns it into something manic and beautiful all at once, all glittering eyes and flushed cheeks. Almost as quickly, though, he takes a step back and averts his eyes. “I haven’t got—anything. I don’t know if I could—”

“You’ve got your wits and your health,” Porthos says coolly. “You aren’t half bad with a sword, and—” He shifts his blade just a fraction, just enough to ruffle the hair that’s hanging over d’Artagnan’s forehead, “you’ve got a teacher. _Three_ teachers. What more do you need?”

d’Artagnan mutters something that he does not quite catch, but when he knocks aside Porthos’ blade and draws his own sword with a small, hopeful grin, Porthos grins back and brings down his sword once again.

* * *

 

Porthos is _trying_ not to feel guilty about d’Artagnan being the one to infiltrate Vadim’s operations, he really _is_ , but he’s the first one to visit d’Artagnan after reporting to the Captain, anyway. He finds him in his room, propped against a pillow on his bed while Constance daintily wraps a bandage around his savaged wrist. d’Artagnan’s watching her with the kind of expression that Aramis might call ‘infatuated’; Porthos isn’t so sure if it isn’t still a concussion that’s clouding his eyes.

Both of them look up as Porthos steps in; d’Artagnan grins brilliantly. “Porthos!” he says.

“Come to check if he’s still alive, have you?” Constance asks, but her smile is good-natured.

Porthos opens his mouth: _I’m glad you’re all right_ and _we’re proud of you_ and _we owe you a week’s worth of wine at the Wren_ crowd at the tip of his tongue, but dissolve before he can say them when he takes a closer look at d’Artagnan. There’s a blackening bruise stretching from d’Artagnan’s temple down to his right eye, splitting the eyebrow; dried blood under his fingernails, and the stench of the Chatelet still clings to his clothes. And yet his smile stretches from one corner of his jaw to the other; his hands rest lightly on Constance’s and his eyes are shining in the midday sun.

Porthos swallows, thinks about how long it took him, or Athos, or Aramis, to prove themselves to the Musketeers like this, and how much longer it was before he realised the bruises, the cuts, the twisted and broken bones weren’t badges of honour, not really—just more parts of a price that they would never pay in full.

“I’ll see you at training tomorrow,” he says instead, and leaves.

* * *

 

Porthos is trying to find a position to sleep that doesn’t aggravate his shoulder when there’s a tentative knock at his door. He rolls over, grunts, then says out loud, “You _just_ changed the bandages, Aramis!”

“It’s me,” comes d’Artagnan’s voice.

Porthos goes very, very still. He is far too tired, far too _raw_ , to deal with d’Artagnan right now—with the pauses, the hesitations, the abrupt shifts from easy camaraderie and reckless confidence to crippling grief and gnawing insecurity. He turns away from the door, hoping that a lack of response would prompt d’Artagnan into leaving. There’s one more hesitant, “Porthos?” before nothing but silence, and Porthos falls into an uneasy sleep.

The next morning, he finds d’Artagnan curled up in a blanket outside his door, fast asleep. For a while, he merely stands and stares, feeling as though the world around him has lurched a moment ahead in time. Then he bends down and scoops d’Artagnan into his arms, and deposits him on his bed, ignoring the tell-tale pain of pulled stitches in his shoulder. d’Artagnan does not wake, only curls into the warmth of Porthos’ recently-vacated bed, and it is somehow both pitiful and uplifting.

* * *

 

“I asked d’Artagnan to teach me,” Constance tells him, her chin lifted defiantly. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold air and nearly half a day’s worth on horseback, returning from giving Henri back to Agnes.

“I don’t doubt it,” Porthos tells her, grinning. “Aramis hasn’t been able to stop talking about it—though I don’t think d’Artagnan’s been very critical.”

“He’s critical enough,” she mutters, scowling slightly.

“Rubbish—there’s no such thing as ‘critical enough’.” He hands her a rapier, guides her hands into the correct grip. “It’s okay even if you aren’t swingin’ right,” he says. “You’ve got to move your feet correctly, first.”

“That’s not what he said.”

“What _did_ he say?”

Constance looks thoughtful. “Mostly… _yes, Constance_ and _it doesn’t hurt_ and _no, you didn’t actually mean to cut me this time, so we’ll call it progress_.”

Porthos blinks at her; she starts laughing.

* * *

 

When Porthos can’t find d’Artagnan anywhere the night after he received his commission, his first thought is to go to Bonacieux’s house. He finds Constance sitting on the stoop, mending an old blouse by the last rays of the sun.

“Have you seen d’Artagnan?” he asks, without preamble.

She doesn’t look up. The needle in her hand slips; it tears a thin red line down her finger. “I don’t know,” she says, and her voice is so flat, so bleak, that although a part of Porthos had been ready to turn away and continue to hunt down d’Artagnan, he crouches before her.

“Constance?” he says, and gently takes the needle and thread out of her shaking hands. “What and who should I fight?”

She gives a startled laugh at that, then wipes under her eyes. “Don’t worry about me,” she says. “Go find d’Artagnan.”

“Constance, if something’s—”

“Porthos, please.” She catches his hovering hands, kisses them. “Please find him. I’ll be all right.”

He leaves reluctantly. He returns to the garrison to find d’Artagnan slumped at the mess table, his head in his arms, the stiff pauldron digging uncomfortably into his forehead. There’s an empty wine bottle on his one side and a very concerned Aramis on the other.

He meets Aramis’ gaze over d’Artagnan’s shoulder. _Constance?_ Aramis mouths.

Porthos thinks of the bleakness in Constance’s eyes, the way the thread had spooled around her fingers, the slow trickle of blood that stained them; of her trust, her grief, her undeniable _love_ for this man—this man who’s so ready to grieve loss and avenge phantoms, rather than fight for what he has.

 _No_ , he says, and walks to his room.

* * *

 

When d’Artagnan returns from Constance’s home one last time, he looks about as defeated as Porthos has ever seen him; he settles on the bench next to Porthos, leans his head against his shoulder and closes his eyes. “Her husband,” he says. “He tried to kill himself. She had no other choice.”

Porthos nods, rubs a thumb over d’Artagnan’s knuckles. “And what are you going to do about it?”

d’Artagnan lifts his head and frowns at him. “What _can_ I do about it?”

“I mean,” Porthos says lightly, “you could always try and make more furniture. Or—you could fight. That’s always been the choice, hasn’t it?”

d’Artagnan stares at him before a slow grin lifts the corners of his lips. “I can fight,” he says. “For all of us.”

Porthos laughs and slaps him on the back, hard enough for it to echo through the practice yard. d’Artagnan doesn’t fall, and he doesn’t stop smiling.

**_Finis_ **


End file.
